


cured with time

by ithinkiwannamarvelyou



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, takes place before far from home, trying to make myself feel better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-06-24 06:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19718410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkiwannamarvelyou/pseuds/ithinkiwannamarvelyou
Summary: after the battle at the compound, peter thought he was alone. turns out he has more people than he could've ever imagined.(5 times peter found new mentors + the 1 time he has his old one back)





	1. rhodey

**Author's Note:**

> mostly endgame compliant. writing this to heal my poor heart.

Two weeks after Tony's funeral, Peter still hasn't been out in the suit. 

He remembers the awe he felt when the iron spider had molded around him, before everything changed. He feels years older, even though he hadn't aged at all during the gap. That's what people referred to it as– at least the ones who had been alive that whole time. For Peter, it was closer to five minutes. 

Sometimes when he closes his eyes he ends up back in that middle ground. The world around him is the same shade of orange, like he's sitting in the middle of a sunset, and there's a constant buzzing sound. It makes him think of bumblebees, of sitting in a park eating ice cream with May, who might be dead. Is he dead? All he remembers is the pain of his body peeling away, floating into the air, of his hand disappearing into Mr. Stark's shoulder– 

Other nights it's worse, because he's alive and whole, sitting across from the shell of Tony Stark. Tony's eyes don't quite meet his when Peter tries to talk to him, tries to get him to snap out of whatever trance he's in. But it's not a trance, because Pepper is telling him _he can rest now_ , and Peter wants to scream, because Tony can't rest yet, Peter just got back– 

Peter shoots up in bed. This time he manages to muffle his cry in his hand, so he doesn't wake up May again. She always tells him that she has nightmares too, that it's okay to wake her up. But he can't, because sometimes there's a part of him that's disappointed when she's the one who comes in. 

He kicks his blankets off and sits at his desk. After the snap was reversed, everything was put on pause– including school. With no homework to puzzle over, and no interest in putting the suit back on, Peter is filled with restless energy, his body desperate to do something after so long sitting idle. 

That's why when his enhanced hearing picks up a girl's scream maybe four blocks away, he pulls off his pajamas without a thought. The girl is whimpering now and Peter can't ignore it, even though he shudders when the nanotech of the iron spider suit inches its way across his skin. As he crawls out of the window, Karen can tell something is wrong. 

_"Peter, your heart rate is elevated. Are you sure you want to–"_

"Karen, I'm fine. Just going to help this one girl out, and then I'm going back home." 

If Karen doesn't approve, she doesn't say anything. Peter shoots a web and jumps before he can think too hard about it. 

It doesn't take him long to reach the girl. The mugger has her pinned against the wall with a knife against her throat. Peter wants to say something smart but the words are stuck in his throat. Instead he shoots a web at the guy's back and tugs, yanking him away from the girl. 

"What the fuck," the guy says. 

"Didn't your mom teach you to keep your hands to yourself," Peter says, and it's a weak line, he's not proud, but at least he could distract the mugger enough for the girl to escape. 

"You're gonna regret that," the guy says– typical, Peter isn't surprised– and then launches at him. He's surprisingly good with his hands, and even with the extra limbs springing from the suit, Peter is off his game. The knife flashes in front of Peter's face and he ducks back just in time. 

_"Peter, your reflexes are exceptionally slow tonight. I recommend you get out of this situation as soon as possible."_

"Karen," Peter says, deflecting blows, "I'm _trying_." 

Karen starts to say something else, but Peter can't really hear her because the mugger roars and leaps forward, and for some reason Peter isn't fast enough to deflect it. The blade sinks in and out of his stomach in one fluid motion. 

Peter's pain tolerance has changed since the snap. Feeling himself turn to dust was probably the worst he's ever felt– but the stab wound still stings. He sinks down against the alley wall, a hand pressed against his stomach. He can tell it hit something serious, because of the way he feels immediately numb and tired, like he hasn't slept in days. 

"Shit," the guy says, and runs. Peter can see Mr. Stark shaking his head. _Why do you always get into these situations, Pete?_ _I'm gonna go grey before your eighteenth birthday._

Peter would do anything to have him say it to him in person. 

_"Peter, I sent an alert… is coming, just hold on…"_

Karen is speaking, but he can hardly hear her through his own harsh pants. The buzzing sound from the inbetween is coming back, like he's being pulled back into the inbetween. _Is that what being dead is, being stuck in that orange glow forever?_

He is almost unconscious when he hears a familiar whirring of Iron Man's jets. He can't get his eyes to open, but he's not worried. Mr. Stark is here, like always. 

"Jesus, kid," Mr. Stark says, and Peter can almost smile. Even if he doesn't make it to the compound, at least he will have one more ride through the sky. 

"Sorry, Mr. Stark," he mumbles around a tongue too thick for his mouth. He hears a sigh as metal arms lift him up off of the ground. 

"Peter, wake up for me, please," he says. Peter's eyes crack open, and it's like a second stab to the gut when he realizes that it isn't Iron Man but _War Machine_ who is holding him. The face plate lifts and Rhodey smiles down at him. 

"You scared the crap outta me, kid," he says, and fires his repulsors. The shock fades just enough for Peter to remember that Tony isn't here because Tony is _dead_ , and he's not coming back to save him. He inhales sharply, pulling at his wound, and passes out. 

He wakes up in a blank hospital room. Rhodey is half-asleep in the chair beside the bed, leaning into his hand. Peter can feel the stitches in his stomach, pulling slightly when he breathes too deep. Outside of the room, he can hear May talking on the phone, reassuring someone that he is okay. He sits up straighter and the bed creaks around him. Rhodey stirs. 

"Peter," Rhodey says on an exhale, clearly relieved. 

"Hey," Peter says. He glances down at the bandage covering his stomach. 

"It must've been pretty bad if I needed stitches," he says. 

Rhodey nods carefully. 

"Four stitches. Your Aunt May will talk to you about it– she understands much more than I do." 

Peter copies his nod, trying to act serious. 

"How are you doing, Peter?" Rhodey asks, and something in his voice reminds Peter of the night before. Suddenly Peter remembers what happened, remembers thinking Tony was there to save him. He flushes and looks away, down to his hands. 

"Pete," Rhodey says, and his voice is too soft. "It's okay." 

"I though you were Mr. Stark," he says, his eyes burning. 

"It's completely understandable. You were totally out of it." Rhodey is looking at Peter the way May does when he wakes up from a nightmare. Peter decides he hates this look. 

"KAREN shouldn't have called you, I'm sure you were busy," he says, turning his head. 

"You would've been dead if I didn't show up." 

"I would've figured it out." 

Peter hears Rhodey laugh. He turns his head quick, to see Rhodey holding his head in his hands. 

"What?" he asks. 

"You're just like him," Rhodey says. He looks up at Peter, with tears in his eyes. "You are both so goddamn stubborn." 

Stunned into silence, Peter just stares at him. Since the funeral, he's been trying not to mention his name or bring him up. After every nightmare he has that wakes May up, she asks him if he wants to talk. He always says no. 

"We can talk about it," Rhodey says. "We can talk about _him_." 

And that is all Peter needs to allow himself to fall apart. He curls forward, his body shaking with silent sobs. 

"I miss him," he says, because it's what he always says, because it's all he ever feels. 

"I miss him too," Rhodey replies, and his voice breaks. 

"It feels like it'll never get any better," Peter chokes out. "Every morning I wake up and remember it all over again, and it hurts just as bad as the first time." 

Rhodey leans forward like he wants to give Peter a hug, but isn't sure. Peter meets him in the middle. For the first time, he doesn't force himself to pull together, just cries until he runs out of tears. When he lays back down again, he feels just a bit lighter. 

Rhodey wipes his eyes and grabs onto Peter's shoulder. 

"You don't have to be strong all the time, Peter. Grief is so much more complicated than people really understand. Just remember you have people in your corner, people who are feeling that same loss. Don't forget to reach out– and not just when you're bleeding out in an alley." 

Rhodey stands. Though his shirt is a dark grey, the stains Peter's tears left are still visible. 

"I'm gonna grab May, she's been sitting outside since she got off of work," Rhodey says. 

"Sorry about your shirt," Peter says. Rhodey smiles, reaches out and pats his shoulder. 

"Don't mention it." He seems like he wants to say more, but instead leaves with a quick, "Rest up, kiddo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically this is going to take me forever because i have a million current projects but i'm really excited to share this piece. i love peter and i love the idea of the team ACTUALLY being a team, so that's my main goal.
> 
> also the title is a lyric from “comfort” by julia jacklin, go listen if u want to cry!!!!
> 
> thanks for reading!


	2. bruce

One month after Tony's funeral, Peter is sent to the principal's office for punching Jeremy Luthern. 

Peter had been having a pretty good day up until then. In English he had been picked to read for Romeo and hadn't stuttered over any words, and Flash was too preoccupied to bother him in Physics. Plus, Ned had just told him about the new Lego sets he bought over the weekend and promised to bring them over after school, which was exciting in itself. 

All in all, Peter is happy. And then Jeremy, sitting at the table across from him in the cafeteria, opens his big fat mouth. Peter reacts before he can think, hitting Jeremy across the jaw. He half forgets about his powers and holding back– which is why the boy drops instantly, and the cafeteria erupts in screams. 

Ned texts Peter while he sits in the principal's office. 

_ Jeremy's okay, just got knocked out. No one's suspicious of anything _ . 

If there's anything that Peter is grateful in this moment, it's Ned and his undying support. Ned, who had pulled Peter away from Jeremy and into the bathroom before he could do anything worse. Ned, who's heart had been racing just as fast as Peter's, hugging him by the sinks until the school officer came to collect them. 

Peter shifts in his seat. He hasn't been to the principal's office since everything with Liz's dad. The chairs are the same, wooden and straight-backed and completely uncomfortable. He's been waiting for awhile– the office called May first, but she's working a double. 

Peter hears Happy's footsteps ten seconds before he enters the office. 

"Happy Hogan here for Peter Parker," he says, flashing his badge at the secretary. He doesn't meet Peter's eye when he walks past, just gestures for him to follow behind. They sit side by side and listen to Principal Morita retell the story– which, now that he hears it, sounds pretty bad. Peter stares down at his hands, shame making his skin hot. The bruises across his knuckles are already fading. 

"I think," Morita says, towards the end of his lecture, "one day of suspension is enough time to set you straight." 

Peter looks up. Morita is staring at him, his eyebrows raised. 

"Right?" he says, and Peter nods. When Morita dismisses them Peter practically runs past Happy, out of the building and into the car. He slides into the back seat and throws his bag down beside his feet. The force of it feels good, pokes at that receding flame that seems to always be on within his chest, ready for a fight. 

He sees Happy walk around the front of the car. Peter prepares himself for an earful of yelling and threatening– feels his stomach coil and his body tense– 

But Happy gets into the car and pulls back onto the street without a word. He drives for ten minutes in silence, not even turning the radio on. Peter's bruises ache.

"I thought you yelling would be bad, but I think this is worse," he says, when he can't stand the silence any longer. 

Happy sighs. 

"I'm not mad at you," he says. 

"What?" 

"I'm not mad. Hearing what that kid said makes me want to hit him too." 

"So you get it," Peter says, to which Happy shakes his head. 

"No. I  _ want  _ to hit him. I wouldn't  _ actually _ hit him. There's a difference, and you know it."

The disappointment clear in his tone sparks something in Peter's chest, urges that fire forward. He leans forward, holding onto the back of the passenger seat. 

"You're the one who always talks about me knowing how to fight–" 

"That's for  _ defending yourself _ , Peter. Not pouncing on some kid who's probably just saying stuff for attention. You're better than that." 

_ I wanted you to be better.  _

Peter coughs, his throat suddenly tight like someone's got their hand around it. He sees Tony, his stern expression, his easy smirk. He'll never forget the way he had looked at Peter that day after the ferry, like he was relieved and guilty and angry all at the same time. 

Then he remembers what Jeremy says and frowns, his hands clenching. 

"He deserved it," he says. 

"Maybe," Happy says, "but you don't." 

Peter falls back into his seat at that and spends the next five minutes in silence. When he looks up again, he doesn't recognize any of the buildings. 

"Where are we going?" 

"I'm bringing you to talk to someone," Happy says. 

"A therapist?" Peter squeaks, leaning forward in his seat again. "May said I don't have to see anyone if I don't want to–" 

Happy rolls his eyes in the rearview mirror. 

"No, kid. Just let me be mysterious." 

Peter slumps back. His heart, which had picked up speed the moment Happy mentioned talking to someone, slows down only slightly. When he woke up in the hospital with Rhodey, May had mentioned the possibility of seeing a therapist. 

_ "It might help, to talk about the trauma with someone who knows,"  _ she had said, but Peter refused. The idea of sitting in a blank room with a stranger and allowing himself to crumble makes his heart race faster than anything he has dealt with as Spiderman. Because in the therapist's office, he would have to be  _ Peter.  _ There'd be no hiding behind the mask. 

Happy pulls up in front of a brownstone building. Peter looks through his window, palms suddenly damp with sweat. 

"Are you sure you weren't lying earlier?" he says, and Happy scoffs. 

"Just press the third buzzer. He'll let you up." 

Peter leaves his bag in the car and walks up the large cement steps, feeling unnecessarily small as he stretches to press the third buzzer on the side of the building. 

_ "Who is it?"  _ says a voice that is vaguely familiar. 

"Um… It's Peter… Parker?" 

There is a beat of silence, and then a loud hum. Peter pulls the door open and walks up the three flights, until he reaches door 304, the same number as the buzzer he had pressed. He knocks and it opens almost immediately. Bruce Banner towers over him with a wide smile. 

"Hey Peter, how are you today?" he says. 

Peter has a hard time believing what he's seeing is real. Bruce is wearing a light grey sweater and black sweatpants, with fuzzy Hulk socks, and he waves a hand when Peter calls him  _ Dr. Banner.  _

"You can just call me Bruce. Come on in." Bruce leads him into a spacious apartment, mostly empty save for a few extra-large items, like a fridge that could fit three people comfortably, and a couple of chairs Peter could use as beds.

"You would not believe how hard it is to find things in my size," Bruce jokes, and Peter manages a small laugh. He would've been more comfortable, if he knew  _ why  _ he was even there in the first place. 

Bruce sits down on one of his chairs and gestures for Peter to do the same. Peter sinks down into it, his feet dangling off of the edge. 

"So. Happy called me earlier, said he thought I could talk to you. Want to explain?" Bruce said.

The flame in Peter's chest burns. He shrugs, acts like he doesn't want to scream. 

"I don't know," he says. 

Bruce hums, leaning back in his chair. 

"I think it had something to do with you being suspended," he says, and Peter is overcome for a moment with shame. He looks down to his feet, playing with the edge of his sweater. 

"I punched a kid at school today," he says, after another minute. 

"Can you tell me what the kid said to make you so angry?" Bruce asks, and Peter feels his temper flare once again. He knows this tactic, of getting him to open up. It sounds just like the conversation with his school counselor, trying to get him to admit that he's struggling. 

He's about to refuse to answer when he looks up and registers the soft quality of Bruce's expression. He never thought he would see such compassion on the Hulk's face, but it's there. Bruce is leaning towards him, his hands out like he could catch Peter if he were to fall. The way Tony had reached for him when his legs gave out, holding him in his last moments. 

Just like that, Peter's anger dissolves. 

"He said Iron Man deserved to die," he says, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Like adrenaline leaving his body, he is suddenly and intensely drained of the fury that had been fueling him. When Jeremy first said those words, Peter had felt the heat of anger overtake him, like something had been injected into his veins. Now, all he can feel is how tired he is, drained from all the nights he's still not sleeping. 

Bruce winces. 

"I can imagine how much that would hurt to hear, especially from someone who didn't know him," he says, and Peter inhales sharply. 

"That's exactly it," he says, voice wobbling. "No one even knew who he really was– all they knew was the face he put on for the cameras, so they think he's heartless and selfish, when really everything he did was all for someone else." 

Bruce nods. For a moment Peter feels a flash of annoyance, that little voice whispering  _ he doesn't know, he couldn't understand _ – but he shakes it off. Bruce knew Tony even better than he did, had known him years before Peter even met him. If anyone, he was one of the only people who  _ can  _ share his pain. 

"Peter, some things are always going to hurt you, or make you angry," Bruce says, his voice tender. "Tony's death was something you still aren't ready to accept, and that's okay. I'm sure any of us would have gotten angry if we heard that kid say something against him. You can't change the way you feel, but you can change how you deal with it. Anger only causes more pain and hurt– not only to you, but to everyone who loves you." 

Peter remembers the fear on the faces of his classmates after Jeremy fell down. He doesn't even want to think about having to tell May why he's been suspended. 

"I guess Happy knew you would know what to say," Peter says, shooting Bruce a small smile. 

Bruce mirrors his grin, pushing his glasses up with one green finger. 

"Peter, I have destroyed more government property than anyone in the world, all because I couldn't control my anger. I have hurt people, and I can't take anything back. I know you aren't exactly Hulk-level, but maintaining your composure is still important." 

Bruce leans forward, patting Peter's knee. 

"Anytime you feel that deep anger again, come over here after school. I have a little lab area upstairs– we can play with chemicals, make some explosions, right? Get a little bit of that energy out in a positive way. Okay?" 

Bruce holds out his hand. Peter gives him a high five, laughing. 

"Yeah, okay," he says. 

Bruce shows him the lab quickly and gives him the code,  _ "In case you need to come here when I'm not around."  _ Peter thanks him as he leaves, even hugging him for half a second before scampering down the steps. Happy is still waiting at the corner, frowning at something on his phone. Sliding in, Peter sighs. The bruises on his knuckles are gone, as is that heat in his veins. 

"All good, kid?" Happy asks, starting the car. Peter nods. 

"Thanks, Happy," he says. 

Happy grunts, but there's a slight smile on his lips when Peter catches his eye in the rearview mirror. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took forever bc i struggled with writing bruce's post-endgame character (bc i personally loved bruce in thor ragnarock and less in endgame) but i really liked the concept of bruce/hulk talking to peter about anger, esp because peter was bound to be dealing with that. 
> 
> thanks for reading! hopefully the next chapters will take less time lol


	3. sam

Two months after Tony's funeral, aliens attack New York for the fourth time. 

It's a Saturday, which means Peter is at Stark Tower, training with Wanda. After the compound was destroyed in the battle, Pepper bought back Stark Tower, to be a temporary space for the Avengers– or whomever is left. Peter tries to spend a few days a week bonding with the team– mostly to get away from May's worried glances. At least if he wakes up with nightmares, his room at the Tower is soundproof. 

He's sparring with Wanda with Bucky as a watchful eye, when they get a call from Captain Marvel. The comms message goes in and out, but the _attack incoming_ is clear. Sam tells everyone to suit up and then the sky explodes. 

Sam doesn’t say anything, just grabs his shield and jumps out of the window.

 _“Team, do you copy?”_ Captain Marvel says.

 _“Danvers, you better have a good reason for this,”_ Sam says, sounding an awful lot like Steve.

“ _Does needing backup count as a good reason?”_

Peter flips out of the Tower, shooting a web at the building across from him. The air is crisp, though he can’t feel much of it through the nanotech of the suit. As he swings between skyscrapers KAREN starts displaying close up images of the aliens- insect-like creatures with large, jagged jaws.

 _“These ones have quite a bite,”_ Captain Marvel warns, and Peter can hear the exhaustion in her tone. He hasn’t seen her since the battle at the compound, since everything with the gauntlet-

 _NO._ Peter wills the thoughts out of his head. He can’t get distracted, not on a mission like this, not with so many lives on the line.

"KAREN, find me some aliens to web up," he says, and his field of vision lights up with activity, pulling up images from cameras around the city. He swings towards a group that seems to be overpowering Wanda, a few blocks from the Tower. The tech in his suit outlines the aliens in red, keeping Wanda a cool blue.

 _“Would you like me to activate Instant Kill?”_ KAREN says, and Peter falters, landing sloppily on a rooftop. The words are too similar, and for a second his mind flashes back to that brown, bloody battlefield. He blinks and returns to himself, shaking out his hands.

“No,” he says, and shoots a new web. As he swings KAREN is silent, like she knows the damage she’s done.

 _“Do we know why they’re attacking?”_ Sam asks. Peter perches on a fire escape above Wanda and starts webbing up the aliens closest to her.

“Maybe they just wanted to _pester_ us,” he says, and is met with a chorus of groans.

_“Just focus on keeping them away from civilians, Spider-twerp.”_

“Aye-aye, Cap!” Peter chirps. He swings down to land a kick to the last standing alien and then raises his hand to Wanda. With a grin she tries to hide, she high-fives him– and then he's off again, swinging around the corner. 

"I got a swarm making their way up Madison,” he says, shooting a taser web at the new pack of enemies. The aliens turn and hiss in his direction, the sound like coins rattling around in an empty jar. Peter's heart clenches. He finds himself trying to keep his distance, webbing the monsters up against building walls.

 _"I'm all clear,"_ Bucky says. 

_"I'm good too,"_ says Rhodey. _"Anyone need a hand?"_

Peter is about to ask for help, his chest feeling strangely tight, when the sky above him splits with the roar. A large black ship comes into view, the lowest point grazing the top of the Tower. Captain Marvel, Sam, and Bucky all curse at the same time. 

"What is that?" Peter says, but then the ship glows blue and Peter's spidey-sense explodes. He lets go of the web he's swinging on and drops as what sounds like thunder crashes above him. Around him, glass shatters and bricks crack. He hits the ground and runs into an alleyway, dodging falling debris. 

_"What the hell–"_

_"-the biggest energy pulse–"_

_"The building on 61st is collapsing–"_

There is so much noise, and it's like Peter's senses have gone haywire from the pulse. Screams of civilians and shouts of his teammates overlap, and his eyes squeeze shut with the force of it. He stumbles, his hand against the brick building, and the jagged edges feel like they're piercing his skin. Everything feels like fresh pain, like a million paper cuts. 

"KAREN, sensory overload–" Peter says, and a moment later the sound around him is muffled. When he opens his eyes, everything is darker, like he's wearing sunglasses. The pain is still there, but Peter can actually hear words again, so he considers it a win. 

_"Does anyone have eyes on Spider-man?"_ Sam says. Peter pulls himself up against the wall. 

"I'm here, I'm fine. I just fell," he says. His ears are still ringing, pin-pointing cries for help around him, magnifying them until he can't hear himself think. Captain Marvel is explaining the alien ship's tech, but Peter can't hear her over the sounds of a baby crying, maybe a few blocks away. Peter can feel her panic. It sets in his bones, vibrating from the inside out. His hands shake as he lifts them to his head, tries to focus on the little girl's wails, to pinpoint her location. 

_"Wanda, Peter, Bucky, secure a perimeter and get people to safety,"_ Sam says, and the baby hiccups, as if to agree. Peter stands and follows the sounds of her sniffles, runs down an alleyway and crawls under a fallen sign, to where a young girl is sitting, looking lost. She must be three or four, with curly brown hair and long, wet eyelashes. She doesn't react when Peter scoops her up and starts running again. 

_"Perimeter starts at 30th,"_ Bucky says, so Peter turns left and then springs into the air when the aliens spot him. He shoots a web and swings past them, keeping one arm curled tightly around the toddler. Surprisingly she doesn't scream, just wraps a chubby arm around his neck and squeezes. 

There's a cop standing by the corner of 30th and Park Ave, waving crowds of people down the street. She freezes when Peter lands in front of her. 

"Spider-Man," she says. Peter holds out the girl. 

"Found her alone," he pants, "take her for me." 

The officer takes the child in her arms and Peter turns. There are more aliens flying towards them, buzzing wildly. Peter, for a moment, can't do anything but stare at the hoard of them, his heart in his throat. 

Then he hears the little girl whimper, tucking her face into the cop's neck, and he starts running. Shooting webs with both hands, he pulls himself up and over the aliens, landing a kick as he passes overhead. It does what he wants, gets their attention, makes them turn and chase him. Running along the side of a building, he tries to think of a plan to deal with the aliens– and comes up short. It's like his brain can't process the information around him, focusing more on how he's bound to slip, that the aliens sound like they're getting closer– and then something latches onto his leg and tugs from below, pulling him back to the pavement. The alien launches onto him before he can think, it’s pincers digging into his shoulders. It's mouth takes up most of it's face, drool dripping, sizzling where it lands on Peter's suit. 

“No!” he yelps, squirming. The alien’s teeth get close to Peter's neck and he panics, kicking hard with his feet and launching it into the air. The stench of the it’s breath lingers, and suddenly it is all too much. Peter's instincts stop telling him when to duck or what's coming up behind him, instead telling him to _run run RUN._

He listens to it, swinging through the streets of Manhattan without a glance at the world around him, his heart hammering. There is another wave of energy and this time Peter isn't prepared. The web snaps and he falls, landing hard on the pavement. Chunks of nearby buildings pepper the ground around him. He stands and tries to start walking, but he can hardly focus. Everything reminds him too much of the last battle, of the creatures he had killed, of the bullets raining down, of Tony's ashen face– 

A piece of cement hits Peter in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground again. He curls inward instinctively, wanting nothing more than to sink into the ground and stay there, untouchable. All he can hear is his own heart, beating three times too fast.

 _"Peter, it appears you are experiencing another panic attack,"_ KAREN says. 

"Someone," he calls into the comms between shallow breaths, "I need help." 

_"Would you like me to engage the Time-Out Protocol?"_ KAREN asks. 

Peter wants to laugh, but doesn't have enough air in his lungs to do so. 

Tony had created the protocol long before everything with Thanos, after Peter had a panic attack during a late-night patrol and passed out on a random rooftop. There are two steps: dull Peter's senses so he can focus on breathing, and then call one of his emergency contacts. 

"No," he says.

_"Are you sure?"_

The only contact Peter had programmed into the system was Tony.

"No one is available." He chokes on dust or maybe a sob, his vision blurry with tears. 

_"Mr. Stark added more contacts to the system,"_ KAREN says softly. 

"What?" 

_"Most of your teammates are listed as options. Would you like me to choose one?"_

Photos of Rhodey, Sam, and Wanda appear on the screen. There is an empty slot where Tony's picture used to appear, a grey box that KAREN left untouched. Peter's chest pain spreads through his body, like blood oozing from a wound. 

"No." 

_"Peter, your conditions are worsening."_

"I don't want any of them," Peter says, pulling his knees to his chest. 

_"Does anyone have an extra hand? Getting swarmed over by the tunnel,"_ Captain Marvel says over the comms. For a moment Peter sees her standing over him at the compound, the infinity gauntlet warm in his arms. He can hear people dying, the heart beats stopping abruptly, the moans of wounds and blood. He doesn't know where Mr. Stark is and if he's still hurt from that stab wound Thanos gave him, or why he looks so much older. He's exhausted and scared, terrified at the thought of having to get up and face the world again, and there are so many _monsters here_ – 

_"Spider-man, do you copy?"_ Sam calls, and Peter comes back to Earth. He is curled under a dumpster. There are no aliens near him, just a cat with matted grey fur, staring at him like he stole her spot. 

_"Spider-man, are you hit?"_ Sam says. 

"No," Peter says.

_"Where are you?"_

"Um," Peter says. The cat is headbutting his shoulder. 

_"Give me a location kid, I'll come to you,"_ Sam says, and this time he is much softer. 

Peter crawls out from underneath the dumpster and hobbles to the corner of the street. 

"41st and 10th," he says, and then sits back down, leaning against the building closest to him. 

After only a minute, Sam soars over to the corner, dropping down to a crouch. Peter shrinks into himself, pressing against the wall. Sam's wings fold in on themselves as he tugs off his goggles. 

"Hey Pete," Sam says, slow and soft. "You wanna tell me what's going on?" 

Peter can’t find the words to explain. He sits and stares up at Sam, fighting for breath. 

“Are you hit?” Sam asks, stepping closer. 

Peter shakes his head. He feels like himself before the bite, when he had asthma attacks after running up a flight of stairs. His mask recedes and the New York air helps slightly, but not much. 

Sam crouches in front of him. 

“Can I touch you?” 

Peter nods. Sam takes hold of his wrist. The suit retracts from his hand, leaving it bare. Sam waits until it’s finished before placing it against his chest. 

“Close your eyes and count along with my heartbeat. When you get to ten, count back down to one.” 

Peter can hear Sam’s heart with his super hearing alone, but doesn’t pull his hand back. The material of Sam’s suit feels nice under his palm, smooth leather and cool metal combined. 

Slowly, the world comes back to him. His shoulders drop in relief when he can breathe, and Sam notices it. He sits on the ground across from Peter, his black boots grazing Peter’s suited feet. 

“Better?” 

“Yeah,” Peter says, “thanks.”

“You ready to talk about it?”

Peter studies the palm of his still-bare hand. As usual, the shame floods through him in waves. As if Sam can read his mind, he nudges Peter’s foot with his. 

“Hey. No reason to feel weird or embarrassed about any of this. It happens. If you don’t want to talk just yet, we can wait.”

Peter glances up at Sam. He’s staring at Peter head on, eyes warm with patience and understanding. He can still hear Sam’s heartbeat, strong and present and grounding. 

"I haven't fought in a big battle like this since–" Peter can’t finish the sentence, so Sam speaks for him. 

"The one at the old compound.”

Peter ducks his head back down.

"Sorry," he says, face flushing. "I should be better at all this." 

"Don't apologize," Sam says, nudging Peter's foot again. "You're dealing with stuff no other kid your age has even thought about. Anybody would have trouble with all of this– and they _do_." 

There is a moment of silence that Peter uses to wipe at his face as discreetly as he can. 

"Did you know I used to be a counselor?” Sam says. “I helped veterans who were dealing with life after war. It can be really helpful, to have a place where you can talk about all that, with someone who can understand." 

It takes a minute for Peter to connect the dots. 

“Oh,” he says, his eyes wide. Sam smiles and shrugs. 

"If you ever wanted to chat, you could spend some time at my apartment. When I'm not flying around the city, I can be a pretty good listener."

“I think… that would be cool,” Peter says, after another moment. Sam nods a few times, then stands and holds out a hand. Peter takes it and lets Sam pull him up. 

“Guess I should check on the rest of Manhattan now,” Sam jokes– and like it’s planned: 

_"Cap, we need a hand rounding up remaining aliens,"_ Bucky says in the comms, and Peter's suit reforms around his hand and head. Sam stops him before he can shoot a web.

"What are you doing?" he says. 

"We have to go help the team," Peter says. Sam shakes his head, his wings unfurling behind him. 

"Why don't you help secure the perimeter, make sure no civilians are left behind." 

Peter didn’t know he would be relieved until Sam says it and his breath rushes out of him in one rushed exhale. He nods, unable to think of what to say. _Thank you_ doesn’t feel like enough. 

“You got it, Cap,” he says instead, light and short and not like his cheeks are sticky with drying tears, and launches into the sky. Smoke rises around the buildings, but Captain America rises above it all, the white star on his chest illuminated by the sun. Peter trails behind him, comforted by the familiarity of the flying shadow on the buildings next to him. 

That night, May shows him the interview on CNN with the little girl he saved. Peter cries when the camera zooms in on her drawing of Spider-Man carrying her through the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was it in my original plan to make peter cry in every chapter? no.  
> do i love it now? yes. 
> 
> also shout out to the new captain america, i love him. 
> 
> thanks for reading!


	4. bucky

Three months after Tony's funeral, Peter gets lost in Queens. 

He's following an old patrol path he used to take, back when Tony gifted him his first Spider-Man suit. KAREN guides him through Manhattan– passing the Tower long enough to say hi to Wanda– and then down through Brooklyn, where he stops two separate bank robberies. He's feeling pretty confident, and so decides to ignore the slip-ups. 

KAREN, however, doesn't let him off that easily. 

_"Peter, I've noticed the few close calls you've had on this patrol,"_ she says– and Peter knows she's an A.I., but he swears she sounds like she’s scolding him. He flips in mid-air to impress a few kids walking down the street underneath him, his enhanced hearing picking up their gasps of excitement. 

"I dunno what you mean, KAREN, I feel great," he says. He runs along the side of a skyscraper, arms pumping. The streets below are especially busy today, swarms of people pushing through each other, crossing in front of honking cars. Peter hadn't thought of how many people must have moved into the city after the blip until he got back to his regular life. Even Midtown high is packed with new faces, new teachers, new inside jokes Peter doesn't understand. He feels his anxiety rise every time he steps outside– but not when he puts on the suit. When he is Spider-Man, everything is back to normal. 

KAREN seems to disagree. 

_"I've logged five separate incidents of near-accidents, most often because of miscalculated aim."_

Peter lands on a rooftop and tries to ignore the fact that he doesn't remember if it’s new or old. 

"KAREN, I'm fine. New York is just different since the blip. People rebuilt and then we all… came back." His throat feels oddly dry, but he shakes it off. "Anyway, it's not important. I'm fine. Hey, do you think the two robberies were connected?" 

There is a moment where Peter thinks KAREN is going to keep pushing– he braces himself to shut her off manually– but then several videos from today's bank robbery attempts start playing within his eyeline. 

_"The cameras picked up a similar image on the clothing of each set of robbers."_ Both videos zoom in and pause on a spot on the robber's jacket sleeve– a skull wearing a pirate hat. Peter squints. 

"KAREN, are we dealing with _pirates_?" 

_"I cannot confirm anything at this current moment."_

He laughs and shoots a web at the building across the street. 

"Scan the city, see if there are any other cameras picking up that same symbol. I have a feeling these pirates aren't done… looking for treasure _._ " 

_"Very funny, Peter."_

"Thank you, KAREN, I try my best." Peter takes a deep breath and jumps. For a horrifying moment, he is weightless and freefalling, and suddenly he can't remember if he shot a web, did he even hit the right building, _is it even there anymore_ – 

And then the web pulls tight and he is yanked back up, flying through the air. Any feelings of fear are pushed out of his mind as KAREN starts pulling up grainy images of the pirate symbol, now in a different location. 

_"A few men wearing the symbol were caught on camera outside of a corner store on 63rd and Booth Street, approximately seventeen minutes ago."_

Peter tries to picture the corner store in that area, the path he should take to get there– and comes up blank. He stops on another rooftop, looking around at the buildings and streets closest to him. For a second, everything looks wildly different, so much so that he can't place himself. 

"Hey," he starts, trying desperately to stay calm, "can you remind me of how to get there?" 

KAREN doesn't say anything, just pulls up the route in Peter's vision, a cool blue line. 

"Thanks, K," he says, immediately more relaxed. _It's not unnatural to get confused– New York is a big city!_ Specifically ignoring the little voice that reminds him that he used to know Brooklyn like the back of his hand, Peter takes off.

He’s a few blocks away when KAREN brings up footage from inside the bank, guns going off with flashes of light. 

_“Shots fired at the bank on 76th and Main Street. Four robbers, all armed.”_

“On my way!” Peter shoots a web out to the old hotel on 73rd– and his webbing goes soaring through the air, connecting with nothing. He drops like a stone, his breath punching out of him in replacement of a scream. He’s done this before, misjudged his aim, so why can’t he shoot a new web and save himself? The ground grows closer and he stays rigid, trapped in a body of stone. 

Right before he lands on the pavement a web shoots out automatically, finding purchase on the streetlamp beside him. His arm yanks with the force of it, pain shooting up from his fingers through his shoulder. This time he lets out a strangled cry, his vision whiting out with pain. 

He falls to his knees, cradling his arm. His shoulder feels wrong, bones rubbing together like tectonic plates. He knows, somewhere within the painful haze, that it’s dislocated. 

_“The robbers have taken control of the bank, Peter.”_

In his mind, Peter can see the clock ticking. He grits his teeth and pulls his injured arm forward, shouting as it clicks back into place. He leans against the wall, catching his breath. 

“KAREN, update.” 

_“It’ll be close, but we can still get to them.”_

Peter starts to run. He tries to keep his injured arm tucked close to his chest but every movement jostles it, sending stinging pains across his shoulder and chest. He shoots a web with his other hand, but his balance is off and he hits the building wall, inhaling through clenched teeth. 

"I can't swing," he tells KAREN, "show me the best route on foot." Once again, her silence is louder than anything she could've said. 

By the time he gets to the bank, gasping for air, the place is cleared out. Cop cars are already pulling up, sirens too loud for Peter’s ears. 

_“Searching for any sign nearby,”_ KAREN says, but at this point Peter can barely stand. 

"I can't," he says. Guilt rises in his throat like bile. He turns away before the cops spot him, ducking into the nearest alley. 

Swinging back proves once again to be difficult. His shoulder is weirdly stiff, making his dominant arm unusable. He shoots webs with his other hand, bumping clumsily on buildings, wincing when he lands too hard. A few people call up to him, concerned, but he's too embarrassed to stop and ask for help– he's supposed to be a _superhero_. 

He finally finds where he originally fell and lets himself drop to the sidewalk. The area is thankfully empty, giving him the space to stare at the empty patch of sand where the hotel once stood. There's a chain link fence surrounding the block, a sign on the front advertising a new set of apartments coming within the year. 

"What…?" he asks, and KAREN seems to know what he needs. A running list of info pops up on the left side of his monitor. 

_"The hotel was demolished almost three years ago, after it violated the 2020 health code laws."_

Peter blinks. The pain from his shoulder seems to spread across his chest. In his head he pictures the last time he passed the old hotel, using it as a springboard when chasing a hijacked police car. It was less than a year ago in his mind– _no, it was six years ago_ , the voice in his head reminds him, _right before you died. Spider-Man died, and the city moved on._

 _"Peter, there are civilians approaching,"_ KAREN warns, and Peter realizes he's still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, hugging his injured arm to his chest, head spinning. 

"Spider-man, are you okay?"

Peter feels a hand land hard on his injured shoulder. Reacting instinctively, he pulls away and shoots a web out to the nearest building, pulling himself up out of the growing crowd of concerned civilians. He makes it another block before his chest is too tight, unable to get enough air to keep swinging, and crumbles on a rusty fire escape. His mind is moving too fast, feeding fear into his heart. 

_How can you be trusted to protect people if you don't even know where you are?_

"KAREN, engage Time-Out protocol," he says, voice cracking. He is damp with sweat underneath the suit, trembling in matching rhythm to the ringing of the phone. 

_"Kid, what's up?"_ A voice says, and if Peter concentrates, he can make himself believe Tony is on the other side of the line. He squeezes his eyes shut and imagines the red and gold suit hovering in the air in front of him, the mask flipping up to show Tony's furrowed brow, his gentle tone– 

_"Kid, you there?"_ Sam says, and the concern that shines through is not the same, but it's still solid, there for Peter to latch onto. 

"Having a little trouble," he gasps, "on a patrol." 

_"Do you need backup?"_

Peter thinks about the robbery he couldn't stop, of the broken glass by the window and the smell of blood he had tried so hard to ignore. 

"Some bad guys got away," he said. 

_I wanted you to be better,_ Tony had said, disappointed. He gave his life for the world, and Peter couldn't keep up with three amateur criminals holding up a TD bank. His stomach hurts. 

_"Why don't you swing by my place, come and talk about it in person?"_ Sam sounds sincere, too sincere for what Peter deserves. _"Come on, kid. Maybe Bucky will let you pick the movie."_

Peter ignores the voice that tries to get him to make an excuse. 

"I'm on my way," he says. 

He's been to Sam and Bucky's apartment a few times in the past month– mostly to chat with Sam. It's surprisingly helpful to talk to someone who understands, who's been through what he has and worse. Peter hadn't noticed the looks of horror May had on her face when he talked to her until they didn't show up in Sam's expression. 

He ends up riding on top of the train over to Brooklyn. With his arm still throbbing and guilt's fist still clenched around his lungs, Peter doesn't really feel like he deserves to swing around as Queen's favorite hero. The more he thinks about it– about the bodies from the bank that might now be moving to a morgue, to the cash of innocents stuffed in stolen bags– the more he realizes he might not deserve the title at all. 

By the time he is climbing up the side of Sam and Bucky's apartment building, he's got a speech prepared in his mind. With Sam being the new Captain of the team, Peter assumes that's who he has to talk to in order to give up his position. Still clutching his injured arm close to his chest, he crawls clumsily through the window– and then freezes. Bucky looks over at him from his spot on the couch. 

"Oh," Peter says, his mask retracting. He had forgotten Sam said Bucky was going to be home, lost in his resignation speech planning. Most of the times Peter stops by, Bucky is there. For the most part he stays out of their way, preferring to be alone– Sam says he’s still getting back pieces of himself. Peter is, of course, curious to ask– but never works up the nerve. 

"Hey," Bucky says, raising his hand. "Sam said you’d be swinging by. He got called out for a Cap-related thing, but he should be back soon." 

Peter's chest grows tight all over again. He can't tell Bucky, a man who was once a ruthless, fearless killer. It's embarrassing enough to have to admit it at all.

"Oh, sorry, I thought Sam was here, I can go," Peter says, stumbling back towards the window. 

Bucky's eyes narrow. 

"He'll be back in ten minutes," he says, leaning forward. "What's wrong with your arm?" 

Peter shrugs, and then winces. 

"Um, got hurt on patrol– but it's fine, I've already put it back in the socket, so–" 

"Did you dislocate it?" Bucky asks. 

Peter blinks. This is the longest conversation they've ever had. 

"Yeah, I almost fell but then KAREN shot out a web for me–" 

"Who's KAREN?"

"The A.I. in my suit." Peter is starting to regret coming by at all. "You know what, I'll just talk to Sam tomorrow at the Tower or something, it's really not a big deal anyway–" 

"If your shoulder was dislocated, you need to put it in a sling," Bucky interrupts, standing. Peter backs up until he hits the wall. Bucky, who had started towards him, slows to a stop. 

"I'm really okay," Peter says, but it comes out weak. Bucky is frowning at him, scanning him like he has X-ray vision– but his eyes are soft, tender, like he's seeing someone he cares about reflected in Peter's pain. They have a brief, silent conversation. Peter is reminded of all of the times Bucky had his back during a battle, the way he'd hold out his hand for Peter to grab, lifting him from the ground. He lets the tension seep from his skin, exhaling. 

"You look like you're about to pass out. Sit." 

The couch is old and lived in, melding to Peter's form as he sinks down. Bucky pads out of the room, only to come back moments later with a first aid kit and a black sling. He crouches in front of Peter and gestures at him. 

"Can you retract your suit so I can get to your shoulder?" he asks, when Peter stares at him. 

"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry," he stammers, as the tech recedes. 

"It's okay," Bucky says, his voice softer than Peter's ever heard. He makes quick work of Peter's shoulder, wrapping tape around to keep it from shifting, sliding the sling strap over Peter's head, tightening it until Peter promises it feels comfortable. Once the pressure is off of his shoulder, Peter feels like he can breathe a little better. 

"Thank you," he says. 

Bucky nods, sitting on the couch beside him. They sit in silence for a few minutes, the TV still playing some baking show in the background. Then Bucky clears his throat. 

"So, what happened today?" he asks, and any slight amount of relief Peter felt from Bucky fixing his shoulder vanishes as his throat constricts. 

"Um," he chokes out, "I, uh." His brain stutters like a record skipping on a scratch. He tries to come up with a lie, something easy enough to make convincing– but his mind is blank, save for the memory of falling with no web to grip, his body frozen in fear. 

"Peter, did something happen?" 

Peter remembers the video KAREN showed him, the grainy footage of gunshots being fired into the ceiling, into the crowd. He imagines what he could have stopped if he had gotten there in time. 

"I don't think I can be Spider-Man anymore," he says, and it feels like he's ripped his own heart out. He can feel Bucky staring at him, but can't make himself meet his eye. 

"Is it the pressure of it?" Bucky asks, and tears spring up almost immediately. Peter doesn't want to admit it, and yet he feels the confession rise up in him anyway, crawling up his throat, pushing past clenched teeth. 

"I'm not good enough to be a superhero," he says, flinching at the truth of it. 

There is a moment of silence, in which Peter seriously considers throwing himself out of the window. If he just heads back home, there's a chance that Bucky won't bring this up with Sam, and then they won't have to talk like this ever again– 

"What do you mean, you aren't good enough?" Bucky asks. Peter shifts in his spot on the couch. 

"The city is just so different than what I remember. I keep getting lost, which never used to happen before. I mean, in the beginning, yeah– but once I was used to patrolling, I could go basically anywhere without even thinking about it. But since I've been back, it's like my world has been flipped upside down, and I don't know–" he takes a deep breath, and allows the worry that's been haunting his dreams slip out. 

"I mean, how am I supposed to be the 'Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man' if I don't even know my own city?" Peter realizes he’s crying, big fat tears that slip from his chin and land on his hands. He flushes, tucking his chin to his chest. "I'm sorry, I know you don't like–" 

"Did Sam tell you about how Hydra kept me alive through the years?" 

Peter sneaks a glance at Bucky. He's staring at the windows past the television, his eyes dark. 

"N-no, he didn't." 

Bucky sighs, dropping his gaze to his hands, interlaced, metal against flesh. 

"They kept me in this thing called a cryostasis chamber. It would lower my body temperature, basically freeze me until they needed me when there was a mission. Every time I woke up, the world had made itself over. I was constantly seeing things that hadn't been invented when they put me under, and having to adapt to it all. It's overwhelming." 

Peter looks up at him. 

“So what do you do?” Fear makes his voice wobble in his throat. 

Bucky looks at him the way he did before, like Peter is something fragile and young. Peter remembers, with a start, that Bucky is over one hundred years old. 

"You take it one day at a time," Bucky says with a tired smile. "The world is large and unknown, but you don't have to take it all on every morning. Just focus on what you can handle, taking in just a little bit more each day." 

Peter nods. The guilt that had been crushing his windpipe has lessened to a faint pressure, which feels more manageable. Bucky leans over, bumping into his arm. 

"It also helps to check in with friends, let them help if that's what you need. You did good, calling Sam– and you could call me too, if you want, I mean–" Bucky cuts himself up, scratching his head, looking away. A smile tugs at the corners of Peter's mouth. 

"I'm not great with words," Bucky says, "But we could jog some mornings, around the city. Maybe start relearning the grid, one village at a time." 

And that does it– the grin spreads slow, like sun peeking out behind the clouds. 

"That would be great," Peter says, fighting the urge to reach over and hug him. 

The window flies open in front of them, and moments later Sam somersaults in, his wings folding into his suit. He walks towards Peter immediately, eyes on the sling. 

"Are you hurt? Should we go to the tower?"

"Calm down, Mom, we handled it," Bucky says. Sam shoots him a glare before returning his focus to Peter. 

"Seriously, Bugboy. You good?" 

Peter laughs. 

"Yeah, yeah– I'm good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what, me, projecting my imposter syndrome onto my characters?? i would never. 
> 
> thanks for being patient and thanks as always for reading !


	5. happy

Five months after Tony's funeral, Peter gets shot while on patrol. 

It isn't unusual for him to deal with injuries from his after school activities– more often than not, he's crawling into his window each night with some kind of cut or bruise. He keeps salt in his room to scrub the stains he gets on his clothes or his bedsheets– he's used to it. 

He's not as used to gunshots, but he's dealt with them a few times before. Of course, last time he had Tony on speed dial, who swooped in and brought him to the compound to get him patched up within the hour. Last time, Tony had soothed Peter's whimpers with a hand brushing through his curls, catching his eye whenever the heart monitor started beeping faster, cracking jokes to distract him. This time, he's alone. 

_But it's fine,_ he tells himself. The bullet went straight through his thigh, missing bone. He's bleeding more than is probably healthy, but that's _fine._ What _isn't_ fine is that he got shot because he skipped his last class in order to go out in the suit, and now Happy is waiting in the car outside of Midtown Tech, texting him about _what's taking so long_. What's taking so long is that he's crouched in the alley around the corner, pressing on where the bullet entered and exited, biting down on his leather belt to keep from screaming. 

Peter can't remember how it got this far. He isn't the kid to play hooky. Sure, during the whole _vulture_ thing, he had tried to leave school before getting caught by Principal Morita– but he hasn't done anything like that since, even with all of the new Avengers stuff. Honestly, Peter _likes_ school. Since he had started taking on more responsibilities as the newest Avenger, he's come to enjoy his time as a typical student in a sea of kids. Homework is boring, sure– but it's simple. 

Being an Avenger is complicated. When Peter had imagined his life as part of the team, he definitely wasn't picturing being followed by reporters. Back before Thanos, the only people coming up to him with cameras were kids who wanted to get a selfie or record him doing a flip. But after a few public meet-ups with the new team, the press started to pay more attention to him. Last week, he had been webbing up a team of men attempting to break open an ATM when a crowd of people surrounded him. 

"Spider-Man, what can you say about the criminals you just apprehended?" One woman asked, her microphone inches away from his chest. 

"Um," Peter stuttered, eyes flitting to each different reporter. "They were bad." 

Cameras flashed. 

"Can you tell us about what's happening with the Avengers?"

"How do you feel about the comments made by Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross about the recent alien attack in New York?"

"Do you know who will be wearing the Iron Man suits now?" 

All of the air rushed out of Peter's lungs. All he could do was shoot a web and swing himself out of the situation. The questions swirled around in his head long after he crawled back into his apartment. _Who's going to be Iron Man now?_

Sleeping never comes easy. Sam had brought up vivid dreams when they talked about symptoms of PTSD, but Peter hadn't really understood, until now. Within the last few weeks, his nightmares have evolved from watercolor to live-action. Instead of seeing half-formed memories that swirl around in his head like someone is stirring a glass, he gets shoved back into the moment, fully formed. 

Some nights he's with Ben, pressing down on the growing stain on his blue button up, conscious of his super strength, how he could crush his uncle's ribs with barely any effort, though it doesn't matter because Ben isn't even talking anymore, his eyes in that far off place Peter didn't understand back then, but now knows so well. 

Other nights he's on the battlefield of the compound, his hand hovering above Tony's broken suit. He can't make himself reach out, because if he does and he can, it means it's real, that Tony really is going, the light on his suit fading out like a dead battery.

This time, Peter dreams about the fight on Titan. He watches his hands tug at the gauntlet, feels it start to give, hears the excitement in his voice. _It's coming, it's coming, it's coming, I got it, I got it–_ and then the swooping feeling of fear in his stomach when Thanos pulls the gauntlet back with strength Peter knows he can't beat. The panic eats at his insides as the fight continues, makes his hands shake as he shoots webs, something in his senses telling him _it's too late, we can't beat him now, we had one chance and I messed it up._ He sees Thanos stab Tony and feels himself start to disintegrate, pieces of skin and cloth floating away like dust– 

"No!" Peter shoots up in bed, hands reaching out in front of him. Within seconds May is opening his door and collecting him in her arms, fingers combing through his hair. 

"It was just a dream," she says, the words coming out easily– she has months of practice. 

"No," Peter sobs. He pushes back against her, rocking with his knees against his chest. "I had the gauntlet, May, I could've stopped him." 

May's hands rub his back, up and down his spine. 

"They did stop him, baby. All together, you beat him." 

"Tony stopped him," Peter chokes out, "and now he's gone. If I had just held on _tighter_ –" 

" _Peter_ ," May says, her voice swallowed by oncoming tears. Even after so many nights of the same conversations she still cries for him, for their life, how it's unraveling because of his guilt. "You have to stop blaming yourself. It's not on you, honey. It's not your fault." 

Half of the world dusted, all because he couldn't grasp a glove long enough. Billions of people's blood on his hands. No amount of May's soothing words will ever help Peter forget. 

So when he hears the screams of panic around the corner from his school the next morning, it takes him less than a second to make up his mind. Excusing himself to the bathroom, Peter scales the side of the wall in his regular clothes, changing into his suit in the alleyway. He’s taken to keeping the spandex suit in his bag, feeling safer with the knowledge of it bunched up under his textbooks.

 _"Peter, why aren't you in school?"_ KAREN flashes the time in his right eye. _"You should be in AP English right now."_

"We had a half-day." Peter shoves his bag behind the closest pile of boxes. 

_"It's only ten in the morning."_

"A really _early_ half day," Peter says, crawling up the wall. The noise from the city is amplified with his hearing, making it much harder to pinpoint the voice he had heard before. "Let me concentrate." 

KAREN is quiet while Peter swings around the block, over an apartment building, and into the mugger, kicking him against a dumpster and webbing his hands together. 

_"The police are on their way,"_ KAREN says. Peter smiles behind the mask as he helps the girl up, grabbing her purse. 

"You okay?" he says, and she nods her head. 

"Thank you, I don't know what I would've done," she says, voice shaking. His heart swells. 

"It's no problem! Do you want me to walk you home?" 

"It's okay," she says, but her eyes are still filled with tears, her hands trembling as she takes the purse from Peter's hands. 

"It's really no problem," he says, holding out his arm for her. After a moment spent staring, the girl smiles and loops her arm with his. They only make it a few blocks before Peter hears a crash a block over, his spidey sense tingling.

"Gotta swing!" he quips, shooting a web to his left and breaking into a run. The web lifts him and he soars over the rooftops, the sunlight temporarily whiting out his vision. 

He tells himself, upon crawling through a school window thirty minutes later– that he won't do it again. Not only is it suspicious– Ned covered for him with a story of food poisoning, and even that was barely believed– but it's dangerous. Even though he’s done weekend patrols before, Peter still isn’t used to the energy of a bustling city. It’s louder, brighter, more intense, and even when KAREN dulls his senses within the suit, he’s still off his game. Plus, he had promised May. So even though it makes him feel good, lessens some of that guilt– it won't happen again. 

Except that it does. Again. And again. By the end of the week, Peter has a routine. He allows himself twenty minutes of swinging around during lunch, never going past the self-enforced five block radius. 

And for a few days, it works well. He feels proud while swinging back to Midtown Tech, the weight on his shoulders a little more manageable. Yeah, he's starving during the last few periods of the day, and Ned isn't too happy about what he's doing– but it's for the best. 

Then comes Friday. Peter had already gone out during lunch, stopping a purse thief and two carjackings all before swinging back in time for gym. Ignoring Ned's worried mumbling is hard when he's holding Peter's feet for the sit-up test, but it's worth it to remember the people he had helped. 

He's halfway through his last class of the day– History– when he hears someone scream from several blocks away. He drops his pencil at the fear in the high voice. _Please don't, please just let me go, I won't tell anyone–_

"Excuse me," Peter says, standing and rushing from the room. His teacher calls out in alarm but Peter can't find it in himself to make up a reason. He's still wearing the suit under his clothes, which makes it easy to crawl out of the window, pulling his mask on. 

_"Peter,"_ KAREN starts, _"This is your second time skipping class today."_

"Not now, K," Peter says, throwing his jeans and hoodie to the side before climbing onto the wall in front of him. "Let me do this first, then you can scold me." 

_"I don't think Aunt May would be happy to know about what you've been doing."_

Peter freezes halfway up the building. He feels rattled, thrown off his usual rhythm– maybe because he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, maybe because of the voice in his head that keeps reminding him that the scream he heard is _definitely_ coming from a child, maybe because the idea of May finding out sends a glass shard of shame deep into his sternum. 

Still, the shame is overpowered by fear– fear of another death on his hands, another name on the list. Ben, Tony. The people on the battlefield he couldn't help. The people he couldn't get to in time during patrols.

Peter shakes his head and, with one powerful push, leaps up to the top of the building. 

"I can't just stand by." 

_"In the past week, you've had four near-misses during fights. You're being more reckless than usual. You're going to get hurt if you continue to patrol during school hours."_

"KAREN, _enough_ ," Peter shouts. He's practically vibrating, adrenaline and anger. 

_"Peter, I'm just trying to–"_

"Mute A.I." Peter says, and KAREN cuts off. 

The guilt rises in his throat instantly. He found the hidden option months ago while tinkering with the suit– he never thought he'd actually use it. 

With a shake of his head, Peter takes off again. He swings through the last block with his heart in his throat, landing in the alleyway with enough force to make his knees buckle. He takes half a second to look at the scene, eyes darting wildly. He can practically feel the tension coming from the perpetrator– a monster of a man, broad shoulders and thick arms. There's a kid cowering against the wall with his arms thrown around his head. His blood pumping in his ears, Peter shoots a web at the center of the man's back. 

"I'd say you remind me of Thor, but I don't want to insult him. Why don't you–" 

The man turns, the gun in his hand glinting in the sunlight. _MOVE!_ Peter throws himself to the side as the man fires, but he isn't fast enough. He feels the bullet enter and exit his leg in less than a second, the pain like a nerve on fire. He falls sideways, landing hard on his butt, and tries his best to muffle the shout that escapes him. There's a hole in his thigh, the fabric of his suit frayed at the edges, blood spraying.

"That's not good," he says. From behind the dumpster he fell behind, he can hear the kid burst into another round of sobs.

"Shut _up_ ," the man yells, and Peter decides he hates him. He pushes himself up on his uninjured leg and shoots a web at the gun, yanking it out of the man's grasp. Before he can react, Peter shoots a web at his face and throws him into the wall, just hard enough to knock him out. He wants to do more to the animal pointing a gun at a _child_ , but he can feel the kid's wide eyes locked on him now, and the last thing he wants to do is scare them worse than they already are. He hobbles closer to the man and webs him to the wall. 

"That should keep him there," he pants. "KAREN, can you alert the police?" 

She doesn't respond, but he can see her sending out a report in the corner of his eye. Once again, guilt presses like a cinderblock against his chest. KAREN told him he would get injured if he continued to patrol so recklessly, and he silenced her. 

Peter hops on one leg over to where the child is still hiding. They're smaller than him, drowning in their jacket. 

"Hi," Peter says softly. "I'm Spider-Man. What's your name?" 

The kid peeks up at him through their fingers. 

"Jamie." 

"Hi Jamie! Shouldn't you be in school right now?" 

"We had a half day," the kid says, eyes lowering to the wound. "You're– You've been–"

"Oh, that?" Peter waves a hand. "Nothing I can't heal from." He helps Jamie up, brushing off the sides of their coat. 

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Jamie asks, voice wavering.

"Oh yeah," Peter says with false enthusiasm. "You see, I have these special healing powers. I'll be fine before the end of the day, I promise." 

A siren sounds nearby, pulling onto the street a block or so away. Peter leans down. 

"The police are almost here. They're gonna make sure you get home safe, okay?" 

Jamie nods. There's something like awe in their expression, like the way Peter used to stare at Iron Man whenever he popped up on the TV. 

"Thank you, Spider-Man." 

Peter grins. Even through the pain, it's still worth it. He waits until he can hear the cops getting out of their cars before shooting a web to pull himself up and out of the alley. Keeping as much pressure off his leg as he can, he swings back to the alley where he left his clothes. He can hear the chatter of kids leaving Midtown Tech– class must be over. Through the adrenaline, Peter tries to think clearly. He needs to control the bleeding and get back in his regular clothes, so he can get back to Ned and explain what happened. 

As he's using his shirt to staunch some of the bleeding from both sides of his thigh, he gets a text. _What's taking so long? The meeting starts at 5._

Peter swears through the belt clenched in his mouth. Happy picks him up every other Friday to spend the weekend at the tower for Avengers training. KAREN had reminded him during his earlier patrol. He pushes harder on his thigh, until his vision goes blurry from the pain, and then ties his shirt around the wound. Happy texts that he's about to come looking for him, so Peter pulls on his clothes and stumbles out of the alley and around the corner, trying to seem normal as he opens the back door of the familiar black car. 

"Hey Happy. Sorry I'm late, I left through the back entrance and then ran into my friend."

Happy's narrowed eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. 

"You don't have any friends other than Ned, and I saw him leave ten minutes ago." 

Peter tries to look offended. His leg throbs.

"I have _other_ friends– I just don't talk about them. Also, don't you want me to be making more friends? You know Sam says it's better for my mental health to surround myself with people who love me and support my–" 

"Okay Dr. Phil, alright," Happy says, any suspicion replaced with the usual annoyance. He starts the car and pulls onto the road. Peter watches the buildings as they make their way down the street. As his adrenaline fades, he starts to realize what a mistake he's made. The pain in his leg only grows worse the further down the road they get– and Peter hasn't even figured out what he's going to do once they arrive at the Tower. Can he really sit through a team meeting while bleeding out? 

The hair on Peter's neck stands straight. 

"Happy, watch out–" 

Two cars collide at the intersection ahead. The cars around them swerve to avoid the crash, and Happy follows suit, twisting the wheel with a swear. Peter slides into the car door, his injured leg colliding with the door handle. He shouts in pain before he can clamp his mouth shut. 

"Jesus, these cab drivers– Kid, you okay?" 

"Yeah, I'm okay." But there is fresh blood seeping into his jeans, a dark circle spreading across his thigh. Something about seeing the stain in his regular jeans instead of his suit makes him instantly light-headed. He slumps against the window. 

" _Pete_ ," Happy says, turning around in his seat. 

"Happy, m'fine," Peter says, but it doesn't sound right, like something is stuck in his throat. A car honks from behind them, to which Happy growls. He starts driving again, barely paying attention to the road. 

"Peter, you better tell me what's going on before I stop the car and drag you to the nearest hospital." 

There's something about the new round of pain that keeps Peter from lying. The words tumble out of his mouth before he can think twice. 

"I snuck out of school to help someone, and then I ended up just patrolling for awhile, and then I got shot _butit'snotabigdeal_ –" 

Happy swears more than Peter has ever heard him and pulls the car over. 

"The bullet went right through my leg, I put pressure on it, it's fine!" Peter yelps, as Happy opens the car door and exits. Peter slides down the seat until he’s lying flat, the world spinning. The back door opens and Happy crawls in, the top of his head brushing against the ceiling. 

"Happy, this car is much smaller than I thought," Peter says weakly. Happy ignores him.

"Lemme see your leg."

"There's not enough space in here." Peter winces as Happy's hands graze the area near the bullet hole. 

"Take your jeans off so I can get a good look at it." 

Peter's eyes widen. 

"Happy, we're–" Peter lifts his head to look outside, a strained laugh escaping him. "We're in a Wendy's parking lot and you want to crouch in the back of the car and get my pants off. Can you see why this might be an issue?" 

Happy glares at him for a second before cursing again. 

"Fine," he says, crawling back out of the car. "But I'm calling Dr. Cho, so she can stitch you up as soon as we get to the Tower. Don't argue." 

Peter looks down at his leg, feels the way the blood trickles down the sides of his thigh, probably starting to stain the car seat underneath him. _How much blood has he already lost today?_ There was a lot in the suit already, from before. 

"Yeah," he says weakly, "okay." 

All he sees in the rearview mirror are Happy's worried eyes. 

"Just hold on, Pete, okay?" he says, pulling the car back onto the road. Peter stares up through the sunroof, counts clouds that pass until they pull into the Tower garage. When Happy opens his door, Dr. Helen Cho is already standing to the side with a bed at the ready. 

"Tell me what happened," she says, helping Peter out of the car. He relays the full story as best he can as they ride the elevator up to the medbay. Helen unzips Peter's sweatshirt, revealing the suit underneath. Happy glares at him, which Peter pretends not to see. 

"You should have stayed in school," Helen says, pressing against the spider on his chest. Happy leans in to start undoing Peter's jeans, and he jolts up, hands out. 

"Jeez, Happy, what's with you and trying to get my pants off?" 

"I am not laughing, Peter," Happy says, but he steps back. Peter pushes his pants and the suit down his legs until it gets too painful, lying down to let Helen do the rest. 

"Can you call Aunt May?" Peter says to Happy, who nods. He steps a few feet away, but Peter can still hear the hitch in May's voice when she curses Peter for being so noble, and it hurts more than the hole in his leg. 

Helen hums, face pinched in concentration. 

"There are still some bullet fragments in your thigh, and your enhanced healing has been trying to work around them, which only causes the rebuilt tissue to retear over and over again. Which explains why you're still bleeding so much." 

"Oh," Peter says, eyelids heavy. "That makes sense." 

"Can you fix it?" Happy snaps. His hand is clamped onto Peter's wrist. 

"Yes," Cho says evenly, though her eyes flicker with annoyance. "I'm going to put Peter on some morphine, make this easier for him. Once he's out, I need you to leave the room." 

Cho reaches for the needles and Peter turns his head.

"Happy," he says, reaching for him. Happy comes to his side, clasping his hand. 

"May's on her way," Happy says. His hand is sweaty and larger than Tony's, but still reassuring and comfortable. "She'll be here when you wake up." 

Peter nods, eyes already drooping. He drifts off while staring at Happy's hand clasped in his. 

He wakes after what feels like a minute. It feels like he's floating, like the day he and May and Ben went down to Coney Island together, bobbing in the ocean, swayed by each passing wave. Peter can almost taste the salt water. 

He turns his head. May is sitting beside him, reading a People's Magazine with a furrowed brow. Her face is still blotchy and her eyelids look swollen, which means he can't have been asleep for too long. He hums, unable to form words just yet.

"Peter, honey," May says, her face splitting into a smile. Leaning forward, she peppers his face with kisses. 

"We're going to talk about this," she says, pulling back to brush Peter's curls away from his forehead. "Later. When you're not doped up and giving me those puppy-dog eyes." 

"M'not even doing that," Peter says, tongue thick in his mouth. May smiles, her eyes shining. 

"Oh, baby. You don't even know." 

There's something in her gaze that tells Peter that this was serious. At one point, May thought she wouldn't get to see his smile again, and now that he's awake, she's trying to commit it to memory. 

"M'sorry," he says, and May's eyebrows dip. She cradles his face in her hands. 

"It's okay," she says. "I'm going to grab us some lunch, okay?" 

"Okay." 

She presses one more kiss to his forehead before stepping away. Peter watches her leave, suddenly noticing Happy standing in the back of the room. 

"Have you been here th'whole time?" he says. Happy doesn't respond, walking to Peter's bedside. 

"How you feeling, Pete?" 

"M'kay." 

"Great." Happy smiles, but there's something hard in his expression. Suddenly Peter knows, deep in his stomach, that Happy is about to explode. 

"Happ–" 

"So then _what the hell is going on?"_

Peter winces. 

"I know May isn't going to say it now because you've been pumped full of drugs and she's too relieved to get angry, but I've got enough to tell you that what you did was unacceptable and foolish. What were you thinking, leaving school to fight crime?" 

Peter frowns. 

"They needed help." 

Happy blows out a breath, his face flushing. 

"What about _you_ , Peter? Your life is important too. And, turning off KAREN so she couldn't alert anyone as _soon_ as you got shot– what was that? What if the bullet had hit something a little more vital?" 

"But it didn't–" 

" _Don't,_ " Happy shouts. "Don't try to excuse this." He runs a hand over his face, falling into the chair behind him. "You're going to give me gray hairs, Peter." 

Peter's heart aches for one long second.

"Tony used to say that t'me," he says. He can hear Tony's voice in those words, see the way Tony would dramatically wave at his hair as if expecting Peter to see the color change in front of his eyes. 

Happy's expression softens. 

"He cared about you, kid. He didn't want you to get hurt, ever." 

Peter remembers being on the ship headed towards Titan, Tony knighting him with a pained expression. The feeling of something solid placed on his shoulders, physical and real. 

"Tony made me an Avenger. I have to do this for him." 

Happy stares at him for a moment, clearly dumbstruck. 

"Kid, Tony never wanted that burden on you."

"It's not a burden–" 

"Tony wanted you to be able to be a kid for as long as possible. Being Spider-Man was already enough, with you being in school. You didn't need another weight on your shoulders."

Peter looks down at his hands. 

"Am I gonna be kicked off the team?" he says softly. 

"What?" Happy asks. "No. Even if I think they should, they need you. The city needs you." 

Peter's chest fills with warmth. _The city needs you_. 

_"But_ ," Happy starts, and Peter can hear the anger creeping back into his tone. "If I hear that you've gone on another patrol without backup, without _KAREN turned on_ , I will personally come after you. You have to stay alive for longer than this." 

When Peter doesn't immediately agree, Happy's eyes flash. 

"I'll kill you if you don't," he barks, and Peter is surprised into a laugh. 

"Understood, Mr. Hogan." 

Happy's lips twitch. 

"Zip it, twerp."

Peter sighs, exhaustion creeping back in. He lets his eyes shut.

"Happy, I need my mask." 

"Why?" 

"I have to apologize to KAREN." 

When Happy doesn't respond, Peter forces his eyes back open. Happy is staring at him with half a smile on his lips. 

"What?" he says, voice cracking. Happy shakes his head. 

"Nothing, kiddo. I'll bring you the mask when you wake up." 

"Cool." Peter closes his eyes again, letting himself sink back into that floating feeling. 

"Pete?" 

He can't find the energy to respond, lulled back into the comfort of the hospital bed, the morphine still flowing through his veins. He feels a hand course through his curls, pushing them away from his face. 

"Look." Happy sighs, his voice barely raised above a whisper. "I know I act like you continuously inconvenience me, but I promise I'd much rather have you here bugging me than gone. It's hard for me to admit, but maybe you need to hear it." Happy sighs again, this time longer. "I care about you." 

"I know," Peter slurs, one eye opening slightly. "You big softie." 

Happy swears, and Peter manages half a laugh before falling back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowwww this took me forever. partially because finals and then holidays and then school starting up again, and partially because i had writer's block basically the whole time. BIG thanks to my friends brit and ren for reading and rereading my stuff, answering my questions and helping me come up with peter's quips when my brain can't provide. 
> 
> only one more chapter !!! get ready to cry :)
> 
> thanks as always for reading!!


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